Savannah Breeze (27 page)

Harry and I
whiled away most of the rest of the morning playing gin rummy. We discussed varying tactics to find Reddy, but rejected all of them as a waste of time. Then we took a break for lunch with some tomato soup and grilled-cheese sandwiches, and in between watched two hours of cable-television fishing shows and one hour of a chef on food television whose gimmick was that all his recipes were made from Spam.

Occasionally Granddad would break the monotony of the afternoon by wandering in to update us on the mud-slide situation, or to complain about the fact that the local NBC affiliate didn't carry
Golden Girl
s reruns like the station in Savannah did.

Harry and I strictly avoided conversation about the previous evening's activities. Although one time, his hand did brush mine while he was taking a card from the discard pile, and I blushed violently.

“Relax,” he said in a low voice, meant only for me. “I'm not trying to get into your pants.” He glanced toward the connecting door. “At least, not right at this moment.”

“Weezie knows,” I said, staring down at the cards in my hand.

“She knows I intend to get into your pants?”

“She saw
me
trying to get into
your
pants last night,” I whispered.

He laughed. “She was watching?”

“How can you think this is funny?”

“Not funny. Amusing. And why are we whispering?”

“I do not want my eighty-year-old grandfather to know about this,” I said.

“Too late.”

“What?” I slapped my cards down on the table faceup.

“So that's where the Jack of spades was,” Harry said, raking the cards together into one pile.

“What does my grandfather know?” I wailed.

“He knows you're a woman of strong sexual appetites,” Harry said, getting up and rummaging in the sacks of groceries. “You want an orange or something?”

“He saw us? Last night?”

“Apparently,” Harry said. “But don't worry, I think he's cool with it.”

“Oh my God,” I said, burying my face in my arms. “What did he say?”

“He didn't say anything. But there was a condom on my pillow when I got to my room last night,” Harry said. “Ribbed, for a couple's mutual pleasure.”

“This is the end of civilization as we know it,” I said. “My grandfather and best friend spying on me while—”

“Who cares?” Harry asked. “You're single. I'm single. We're consenting adults.”

“You still haven't told me how old you are,” I said suddenly.

“I liked that guessing thing we were doing last night,” Harry said, putting his hand on my knee, then sliding it up my thigh. “I thought we could finish up tonight.”

“No!” I said fiercely, slapping his hand away. “We are not making love with my grandfather listening in from the other room.”

“What about if I get us a room someplace else?”

“No! He'd know what we were doing.”

“When can we do it, then?”

“I don't know. Maybe…after we get back to Savannah. Anyway, what makes you think we
are
going to do it?”

“Oh, we're going to do it. I've known since the first day you
showed up at the Breeze Inn and started trying to boss me around that we'd end up in bed together. It was just a question of time.”

He crossed his arms over his chest with such a look of smug self-satisfaction that I wanted to kill him right then.

But my cell phone started to ring, and he was, literally, saved by the bell.

“Did you get lost?” The voice was familiar, but I couldn't place it until I saw the caller ID on the phone's readout panel. Sandra Findley.

“Hi, Sandra,” I said.

“I thought you were going to keep me up on any new developments.”

“Sorry,” I told her. “There really hasn't been much to tell. I had drinks with Sabrina Berg yesterday. She's a real pistol. It turns out she actually went on a sort of date with Reddy. He took her back to some condo he was staying at, but she'd had a few drinks that night, and she's not sure exactly where he took her. So now we're sort of spinning our wheels down here, hoping to come up with a lead.”

“I think I've got something that might help,” Sandra said. “Mother's accountant called me this morning. She wanted to know if I knew of any reason why Mother is paying two American Express bills.”

My pulse gave a little blip and I turned to Harry and gave him the thumbs-up sign. “It's Sandra,” I said. “From Vero Beach.”

He returned the thumbs-up.

“When I confronted Mother about it, at first she acted as if she didn't know what I was talking about,” Sandra said. “But after I showed her the copy of the statement the accountant faxed over, she finally admitted that she'd given Reddy the credit card. It was supposed to be so he could take her to lunch without having to be embarrassed by her always paying. Can you believe it? She also claimed she'd forgotten she'd ever given him the card. I don't know whether that part is true or not. She has gotten pretty forgetful. My brother and I are going to have a long talk with her about finances any day
now. But I did want to let you know about it before I call Amex and have the card canceled.”

“Wait,” I said, interrupting her tirade.

“When I think about that slimebag, running around charging things right and left to us, I just see red,” Sandra continued. “You should see the bill from Burdine's! He bought himself $800 worth of underwear. And a $300 pair of sunglasses.”

“Sandra,” I said urgently. “Wait. Please don't cancel the card. Not yet.”

“Why the hell not? He's discovered Palm Beach too. He's been in every store on Worth Avenue. Armani, Escada, Saks, Chanel, Dior. He bought himself a $1,400 gym bag at Louis Vuitton. Did you even know Louis Vuitton made gym bags?”

“Well, uh, yeah. In my former life, I had a Louis Vuitton backpack,” I confessed. “But I bought it with my own money. Of course, Reddy's probably carrying it now. If he didn't sell it along with the rest of my stuff.”

“He's got to be stopped,” Sandra said. “You should see the restaurants he's been eating at. Most of them I can't even afford.”

“Just don't cancel the card yet,” I repeated. “If you cancel the card, he'll figure out somebody's after him, and we'll never catch up with him. Look, could you fax those credit card statements to me?”

“Yeah, I could do that,” Sandra said. “Where are you staying?”

I made a face. “A motel called the Mango Tree.” I scrabbled around on the nightstand until I found the motel's laminated rate card. “Here's the fax number,” I said, dictating it to her. “Just send it to the attention of BeBe Loudermilk.”

“All right,” she said reluctantly. “You've got two days. And then I'm canceling the card, no matter what.”

“Two days,” I promised. “And then you can come down here and cut it up yourself.”

“That's not the only thing I'm gonna cut,” she said.

I put the phone down, and then it was my turn to feel smug. “Reddy has been on a spending spree. With Polly Findley's American Express card.”

“And?”

“Sandra is faxing the statements over here. So we can see where he's been and what he's been doing.”

“I like it,” Harry said.

“Me too.”

Fifteen minutes later I strolled over to the Mango Tree's office.

The man standing behind the desk wore only a pair of bright yellow polyester slacks. No shirt, no shoes. He was nearly bald, with exactly seven strands of hair coiled sideways across his gleaming head. He had skin that looked like oiled mahogany, and black-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses. Mister Mangoville. Some kind of sitar music was playing on the radio and he was swaying along to the music, in a world of his own.

“Yes?” he said, looking up, annoyed by the interruption.

“I'm BeBe Loudermilk. In unit fifteen. Did a fax arrive for me?”

He frowned. “Loudermilk?”

“Unit fifteen. I'm expecting a fax.”

“Ghita!” he shouted.

A dark-haired young woman emerged from a curtained area behind the counter. She wore contemporary American clothing—blue-jean shorts, an oversize T-shirt—but she had an exotic beauty that transcended her trashy surroundings. The man chattered at her in a language I didn't understand. She disappeared, then reappeared with a handful of papers. He snatched them from her and rifled through the pages.

“Forty dollars,” he announced.

“What?”

“Eight pages. Five dollars a page transmission charge,” he said.

“That's crazy. You can't do that. It's price gouging.”

The music played. He closed his eyes and swayed. Back and forth. Like a snake charmer. I stared at him, but he didn't see me. We were at an impasse.

“Put it on my bill,” I said finally.

“Cash,” he said, without opening his eyes.

“I'll be right back,” I said, stomping out of the office.

Weezie was in the room, unloading a large cardboard box. “Wait till you see,” she crowed. “I hit the mother lode. Can you believe, I've been at one sale, all this time? The trunk of your grandfather's car is full. I had to stop at the UPS store to have the rest of the stuff boxed up and shipped back. And I stopped at some antique shops on A1A and sold off a bunch of other stuff. I quadrupled my $600 investment, in like, fifteen minutes.”

“That's great,” I said, putting my hand out. “Give me forty dollars, okay?”

She gave me the money without a question. That's the thing about a best friend. They'll spy on you one day, then loan you money the next.

I went back to the office and slapped two twenties down on the counter. Mister Mangoville opened his eyes, looked at them, and tucked them in the pocket of the yellow pants. Only then did he slide the papers across the counter to me.

Back in the room, I arranged the statement pages in chronological order across the bedspread. “Here we go,” I told Harry and Weezie.

Whatever you wanted to call him—Reddy, Randall, Rodolfo, or even Roy Eugene—the man was unarguably a discriminating connoisseur of consumer goods.

All the stores that Sandra Findley mentioned were on that Amex statement, along with dozens of restaurants and shops I'd never heard of.

But it was the smaller charges that caught my eye.

“Look.” I pointed at a line item of $52.80 for a gas station on
DuPont Boulevard. Five days later, there was a charge of $32.37 for the same station. And the name reappeared four more times.

“And here,” I said, pointing to restaurant charges at a place called the Sand Bar. I grabbed the phone book and looked it up. The address was also DuPont Boulevard.

By now, Harry had his map unfolded on the bed.

“DuPont is actually right at A1A. And it's not that far from Galt Ocean Mile,” he said, stabbing the map with a stubby index finger.

“Where else is he spending money?” Weezie asked. “This is fun.”

“Two more charges to the Sand Bar,” I said, scanning the pages. “Three more charges, all around twenty-five bucks each, at a place called the Beach Market Deli.”

Weezie had the phone book now, leafing through the business listings. “Also on DuPont Boulevard,” she said.

“He's playing golf now too,” I said. “Here's a charge to a place called the Grande Oaks Golf Club.”

“Again, DuPont Boulevard,” Weezie said. And then she wrinkled her brow. “Hey.” She leafed back through the phone book. “All these places he's been charging stuff, they're all at the same street address.”

She picked up her cell phone and dialed the last number she'd looked up, the Grande Oaks Golf Club.

“Hello,” she said. “Can you tell me where your golf course is located?”

She listened, nodded, and hung up the phone.

“That explains a lot,” she said. “All those businesses, they're all part of the same resort. The Bahia Mar Hotel and Marina.”

“Bahia Mar Marina?” I pounded the bed in glee. “That's it. That's where he's hanging out. He's nailed!”

I looked over at Harry for confirmation. But he had a weird look on his face.

“Did you say the Bahia Mar?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Weezie said. “Bahia Mar. It sounds so old Florida. I can't wait to see the place.”

“Bahia Mar Marina,” he said dreamily. “Man, I forgot it was down here. That's where Travis McGee kept the
Busted Flush
. Slip F-eighteen. Bahia Mar Marina. Son of a bitch!”

I looked over
Harry's shoulder at the map. “How far away is Bahia Mar? And how soon can you be ready to go?”

“I'd guess about fifteen minutes. And I'm ready now.”

He was wearing baggy khaki shorts, a T-shirt advertising the Savannah Sport Fisherman's Billfish Tournament, and a battered pair of Top-Siders. He had a day's growth of beard. To my own chagrin, I had to admit the grizzled-sea-captain look was starting to work for me.

“What do you think?” I asked Weezie. “Can he go to a fancy marina dressed like that?”

“
He
can,” Weezie said pointedly. “You can't. What if you run into Reddy? You'll blow our cover.”

“I'm not staying here,” I protested. “Anyway, I'm the only one who knows what he looks like.”

“We've seen the video,” Weezie reminded me. “I'm not saying you shouldn't go. All I'm saying is that it may be necessary for you to go incognito.”

I looked at her. She looked at me. We gave each other the mutual high five.

She opened one of the black plastic trash bags she'd hauled into the room from her morning's estate-sale outing.

“You wouldn't believe the clothes in that woman's closet,” she said, sorting things on the bed. “She was the ultimate clotheshorse. I saw flapper dresses from the roaring twenties, all the way up to a St. John suit that still had the store's price tags hanging from the
sleeve. I didn't buy any of the really expensive couture stuff. But I did pick up a few things. Just in case.

“Okay,” she said. “Keep an open mind. Remember, we want you to look like somebody else.”

She laid a yellow-and-orange-plaid polyester pantsuit beside me. To which she added a yellow silk head scarf and a pair of thick crepe-soled orthopedic oxfords.

“No,” I said, grimacing. “Not even for two million dollars am I going anywhere wearing this outfit. Especially these shoes.” I held them at arm's length.

“What's wrong with those shoes?” Granddad said, wandering into the room eating a grape Popsicle. “I like those shoes. Lorena has a pair just like that to wear to bingo.”

I stuck the shoes back in the garbage bag. “If I wear those things, I'll get hit on by every old geezer in town. No offense, Granddad.”

“Hmm,” Weezie said.

“What else have you got?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Lots of sixties cocktail dresses. But you can't go traipsing around a marina in one of those. It'll look too costumey.”

She rummaged around in the first sack, and then hauled over a second one that she dumped on the bed.

“Wait,” she said. “I've got it. You'll be brilliant.”

She held up a pair of white cotton Capri pants. “Bobbie Brooks!” Weezie announced. “Very resort wear. And they've cycled back into style again.” She tossed a ruffled turquoise crop top in my direction. I held it up to myself.

“Not bad,” I admitted.

“Early Ann-Margret,” Weezie said. “But that's not all of it.”

She picked up the previously rejected silk scarf, and tied it under my chin, and then, alternatively, with the tie at the nape of my neck.

She shook her head. “You still look like a sixties version of BeBe Loudermilk. Wait. I left some more stuff in the car.” She dashed out
side and was back moments later with a Burdine's shopping bag. Which she emptied. “Accessories!” she said brightly.

She tossed me a shoulder-length black wig. “Try that on.”

The wig had eyebrow-tickling bangs and flipped-up ends. I'd never had bangs in my entire life. Ever.

Weezie rolled the scarf into a headband and knotted it. “Hmm. Kinda reminds me of Marlo Thomas in her
That Girl
mode.”

She dug through the assorted wigs, scarves, and pieces of jewelry until she came up with a pair of white plastic-rimmed sunglasses with frames so enormous they hid most of the upper half of my face. She added a pair of large white plastic hoop earrings.

“Yes!” she said. “We're getting closer.”

I got up and peered in the mirror over the dresser.

Harry tilted his head, as if trying to make up his mind about something.

“Who does she remind me of?” he asked.

“Jackie Kennedy,” Granddad announced.

Weezie circled around me, clicking her tongue. “You still look sorta like yourself.” She glanced over at Harry. “If you saw her walking toward you, would you say, ‘Hey, that's BeBe dressed up for Halloween'?”

“Maybe,” Harry said. “Part of it's her figure.” He grinned.

“I've got an idea,” Weezie said, heading for the bathroom. She grabbed the pants and top, turned, and beckoned me with the crook of her finger. “Follow me.”

She closed the bathroom door. “Strip,” she ordered. “Down to panties and bra.”

I knew better than to argue.

She handed me a handful of folded-up toilet tissue. “Stick that in your bra.”

“What? Why?”

“God gave you a B cup, now me and Charmin are giving you a C.”

She went behind me and with a couple of no-nonsense yanks, shortened the straps of my bra by half an inch.

“Ow!” I cried. “Now what?”

“We need these bad girls riding up nice and high,” she decreed. “We need you stylin' and profilin'.”

“They're hitting me in the chin,” I whined.

“Perfect,” she said. She slapped my butt.

“Ow. Cut it out.”

“Like a pancake,” she said, tsk-tsking. “But there's nothing I can do about it.”

“What? You didn't buy any butt implants at that sale?”

She was humming and rifling through the contents of her cosmetics bag. “Sit there,” she said, pointing to the commode.

I sat.

She ripped off the wig and headband and wrapped a towel around my own hair. “Close your eyes.”

A moment later she was smearing a vile-smelling lotion on my face and neck. “I brought this stuff to put on my legs, they're so fish-belly white this time of year.”

“What?” I asked, getting a little concerned.

“Just a little bronzer,” she said.

I opened my eyes. “Tan in a can?”

“It takes about thirty minutes of exposure before it starts to work,” Weezie said, handing me the tube. “Put that on your arms and legs now. And don't worry. I use it all summer instead of wearing panty hose.”

She went to work with the makeup then, tweezing and dabbing and curling, humming the whole time. I think the tune was “I Enjoy Being a Girl.”

“Get dressed,” she said. “And be careful putting on those white capris. I don't want that bronzer rubbing off on 'em.”

“Now the wig and headband,” she said, still humming. “And a little lipstick. Coral Gables coral! Perfect.”

She turned me around by the shoulders to face the mirror.

“Voilà!”

“Oh my God,” I breathed.

“Just one minute.” She ducked into the bedroom and came back with a pair of four-inch-high screaming yellow vinyl platform heels straight out of the seventies.

“Now walk,” she ordered, flinging the bathroom door open with a flourish.

I minced. Carefully. What with the reengineered breasts and the Elton John shoes, I was afraid I'd tip forward any second.

Granddad and Harry were sitting in the kitchenette area, sharing a bag of Cheez Doodles. Granddad was having what I hoped was his first Scotch of the day.

“Well?” I did a self-conscious little twirl in front of Harry. “Is it still me?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Not even close.”

“Great,” Weezie said, beaming. “Just give me ten minutes to get myself together and we'll be ready to roll.”

“I'll change too,” Granddad offered. “Can't let you ladies steal our thunder, can we, Harry?”

“Guess not,” Harry said. He still hadn't taken his eyes off me.

Ten minutes later, Granddad reemerged from his room. His white hair was slicked straight back from his forehead with some kind of shiny pomade. He wore a pair of yellowing cotton-duck slacks, a hot pink dress shirt, and a double-breasted blue blazer with gold buttons and wide lapels. Also a silk cravat.

“A cravat?” I said. “Granddad, I'm not sure—”

“Awesome!” Weezie said, coming out of the bathroom and clapping her hands in approval. “Spencer, you look so handsome and distinguished!” She gave me a broad wink. “BeBe, we're gonna have to watch this one to make sure some rich widow lady doesn't try to cut in on your grandmother's territory.”

“Aww,” Granddad said, blushing.

“Hey,” I said, taking in Weezie's own outfit. “No fair!”

She'd clearly saved the best of the day's pickings for herself. She wore a short, lime-green flowered rayon halter dress, lime-green sling-back flats, and a floppy pink-and-green polka-dotted straw hat.

“How come you get to be all adorable and I get to look like—”

“Whoa!” Granddad said, bending down to examine my face. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing,” I said, taking off the sunglasses. “Why?”

“It's your skin,” he said. “Is it supposed to look like that?”

“Like what?” I looked down at my hands, which had suddenly turned a deep burnt orange.

I ran into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My face was the same shade of dark copper. “Weezie!” I screamed. “What have you done to me?”

“It was just a little bronzer,” Weezie said, fluttering nervously around behind me. “I use this stuff all the time. It's never done that to…me…”

She was holding up the tube of tan in a can, squinting at the label. “Oh. Here's the problem. Wow. The package is the exact same as the kind I usually buy at home. But this is X-Treme Caribe. I usually get Sun-Kist Mist.”

Granddad leaned into the bathroom. “You know what you look like?”

“A crack ho!” I moaned. “I look like a crack ho who got left out in the sun for a couple years too long.”

“No, that's not it.” Granddad frowned. “I've seen her on that MTV sometimes. When nothing's happening on the weather channel. You know who I mean?”

“You look fine,” Harry called from the other room. “Now can we get going?”

“I can't go out looking like this,” I protested.

“You're just not used to being a brunette,” Weezie said, dragging me out of the bathroom and toward the door. “With the black wig
and the eye makeup and all, you look fantastic. Exotic, even. Doesn't she, fellas?”

“You look hot,” Harry said, giving me an up-and-down leer.

“I know who it is,” Granddad said, snapping his fingers. “You look like that Jennifer Lopez. Only not quite as bootielicious.”